This
book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters
appearing in this work are the product of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely
coincidental.

All
rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form. No
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying,
recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
written permission of the publisher.

Dedication

To My Family and Friends

In 2001, my mom, Connie, passed
away following a long battle with cancer. She was an amazing, tough
woman who along with my grandmother, Irene, raised my brother and me
after our father died in 1975. In part, this book is dedicated to
these two wonderful ladies who helped make me the person I am today.

I would also like to thank my
brother Steve for his inspiration. He is an amazing person and has
found that delicate balance between family, friends, career and
sports. He has even written his own book, Far Beyond the Field,
a marvelous look at managing those relationships and realizing what
is most important in life.

I would be remiss if I did not
thank the fourteen family members, friends, and
acquaintances who all took the time to read and
review this work. It was their collective positive responses and
improvements that told me I should see this project through.

Finally, there is one other
person to whom I am eternally grateful. My wife, Mary, who is my best
friend and has inspired me for the last twenty years to be a better
person, a better husband, and a better father.
She encouraged my writing every step of the way,
and when I needed that final kick in the pants to finish, she
orchestrated the greatest birthday party of my life with all of my
family and friends. Two months later, I finished this book.

Author’s Note

The following account takes
place in the early 18th Century. As such, English speech
patterns were quite formal by today’s standards. In an earlier
draft of the novel, I used this formal speech but found it a bit
difficult to work with, let alone to read. Therefore, I hope you will
find this version a bit more reader friendly.

In addition, as this is a
seafaring adventure, there are a number of nautical terms used
throughout the book. For reference, I have included a glossary of
relevant naval terms.

Prologue

The noise startled the young
man as he walked along the dock towards the tall ships. Looking up,
he gasped at the skeletal figure hanging in irons above his head.

“Tis a
warning my son, to all would-be pirates who sail these waters,” his
father said in that grandiose fashion of his. The older man resumed
his walk as the boy continued to gaze up at the grisly shape. The
man, he thought it had to be a man, was well dressed in a fancy white
shirt, long black coat, and black breeches. The
body was sheathed in iron rings and chained to a lamppost hanging
over the footpath along the Thames River. As he studied the figure,
the boy slowly realized that this poor soul had no head.

“Father,” the boy asked,
“who was he?”

The father stopped and turned
back towards his son. “I am afraid the question is not ‘Who was
he’ but rather who is he?” Puzzled, the boy looked up at his
father. In that condescending way all fathers possess, he looked down
upon his son and simply said “Oh Grayson… I’m afraid this is
you.”

Part One

Chapter One

It
started with a vague awareness of light, growing in intensity,
forcing its way into his very existence. The man closed his eyes
tightly against this invasion, turning the light into red. This
proved futile, however, and he was slowly brought back to life,
reluctantly squinting into the bright sky. Lying on his back, a light
breeze blew gently across his face. He had no concept of time but
gradually was becoming more aware of his surroundings. He could hear
the sound of the surf, feel the rays of the sun on his face and sense
a smell… but it wasn’t the smell of the sea surrounding him. It
was the smell of decay, the smell of death.

The man sat up slowly. In doing
so, another sense came roaring back as he felt a searing pain across
his brow. He raised his hands to his head and wiped his face. To his
dismay, he found his hands covered in dried blood. The stranger
staggered to his feet with great effort and made his way down to the
surf. He removed the long coat he had been wearing and rinsed his
hands and face. Sitting down at the water’s edge, he tried to make
sense of everything. He had no idea where he was or how he had gotten
here. He tried to recall what happened, anything that had happened.
He remembered a vivid dream where he was walking along the docks with
an old man and came upon a headless body in chains. He recalled the
man saying ‘Oh Grayson… I’m afraid this is you.’ “What had
that meant?” he wondered aloud.

The pain in his head had
subsided somewhat, and the bleeding seemed to
have stopped. Looking out to sea, he again tried to collect his
thoughts. However, as the man sat there in the surf, he realized that
he had relatively few thoughts to collect. He could recall memories
of youth, playing a game of tag with friends, a holiday feast with
family… where he saw the same man from the dream. He also
remembered the old man teaching about the stars and the moon in the
night sky. As other memories from long ago came rushing back, the
most vivid of all was the feeling of exhilaration he had felt
watching the ships departing for adventure on the high seas.
Amazingly, these images were as clear as if they had happened
yesterday. Yet sitting here on what he was guessing was some
godforsaken island, he had absolutely no idea what had happened. Even
more disturbing was the fact that this solitary figure had no idea
who he even was.

Clouds passed by overhead and a
flash of lightning on the horizon brought him back to the present. It
was followed by a long, low peal of thunder. He watched as the bands
of a very strong storm approached. The rain striking the sea in the
distance resembled the clouds of dust raised in a distant cavalry
charge. He sighed and stared down into a tide pool among the rocks at
water’s edge. Gazing upon his reflection, he
found it impossible to believe that he could recognize the formation
of a powerful storm and yet know nothing about the stranger staring
back at him. He began to feel the panic rising within. Truly, this
was madness.

He turned back from the beach
to head inland. He knew he would have to find shelter before the
storm hit. Walking up the beach, he noticed movement above the sand.
At first he thought it was smoke but as he drew closer, he could see
a swarm of flies hovering over the ground like a fog. The man drew
closer to see just what had these flies in such an agitated state. It
took him a moment to fully comprehend what his eyes reported. The
horror that lay before him took his breath away as he sank to his
knees. There in the sand lay bodies; twelve bodies in all. His
stomach heaved at the sight. Yet as repulsed as he was, he could not
turn away, and he forced himself to take in all
of the details. Judging by the clothes they were wearing there were
eleven men and one woman. As he continued to gape at this chilling
spectacle, he knew that something even more macabre was at work here.
All twelve of the bodies were missing their heads.

The sun rose the
next morning sharply, and the lone figure emerged from his
makeshift shelter. The storm that had passed had been furious,
uprooting trees and casting debris all over the beach. It had also
swept three of the headless bodies out to sea. In order to survey
his surroundings, he climbed a small hill behind the beach and from
that perspective was able to view most of the island. His new home
was quite small, perhaps only a mile or so in diameter. There were
stands of palm trees scattered across the dunes,
and a rocky outcrop was positioned at one end of the island.
Returning to the beach, he mulled over his predicament. While a
mystery to himself, he still seemed to have all of his faculties. He
recognized the storm as it approached the day before and he was able
to fashion a shelter of sorts from some tree branches among the
boulders. He could also look out to sea and inherently knew that he
was more at home on a ship than on land. He found this quite
frustrating and decided to concentrate on the task at hand.

In a situation such as he was
facing, he knew that he needed to set priorities. The first would be
food and water. During his survey of the island, it was clear that
there was no source of fresh water. The storm had, however, littered
the beach with coconuts and bananas so provisions would not be an
immediate concern. He next took stock of his few possessions. He was
barefoot, wearing only a pair of torn breeches, filthy white shirt,
and long black coat. In the pocket of his britches, he found a single
gold doubloon. Perhaps this was his good luck charm; perhaps not,
considering his current state of affairs. The man continued his walk
along the beach, letting the warm water run up his ankles. Walking
slowly, he contemplated what must come next. The remaining headless
corpses were now lying twisted and wet in a testament to the power of
the storm. Taking a deep breath, he set upon the grim task of
searching the bodies for usable items.

The work was slow and grueling
as the bodies were heavy, wet and still reeking with the smell of
death. He struggled internally whether or not to search the only
woman among the dead. Feeling as if she had already suffered enough
indignity, he let her be and promised to bury her first. When his
search was completed, he was surprised to have found several useful
items—a boarding axe, a pistol with three
balls and a bag of powder, two daggers, a broken sword, a small
mirror and three gold coins. As he sat down to examine his stockpile,
he suddenly felt utterly exhausted. Perhaps he had still not
recovered from his own ordeal, whatever that was. He took one of the
daggers and reached for a nearby coconut which was lying nearby. The
man worked quickly to open the coconut and drank the milky liquid
slowly. This slaked his thirst and gave him a bit of energy. It
appeared to be about midday, and he knew that it
would take hours to bury his silent castaways. He decided there would
be time for food later. Using the broken sword as a makeshift shovel,
the island’s sole proprietor began to dig.

By the time he had finished,
the sun was low on the horizon. He walked back down to the surf to
wash up. It was still fairly warm, so he did not
think a fire was necessary this night. He did need to eat however and
wanted to improve the makeshift shelter he had created the day
before. There were plenty of leafy branches up and down the beach
from the storm. Gathering up as many as he could carry, he brought
them to the area he planned to develop. He turned to head back to the
beach for more branches when he happened to notice movement on the
horizon. The man ran down into the surf and waded several yards out.
This was indeed a ship, and she appeared to be
heading in his direction. He remembered the mirror he had found and
raced back to his shelter.

He found the mirror but then
paused for a moment. He had to think this through. The ship that
is approaching, who is she? Could I have come from this ship? Are
they responsible for what has happened here? “Are they coming
back for me?” he wondered aloud. As he pondered this last question,
he remained at his shelter where he was partially concealed by the
foliage. The ship continued to draw closer, and
he could see that she had taken damage. Torn sails fluttered in the
fresh breeze, and her foremast was cocked at an
unnatural angle.

The stranger watched as the
crew struggled to launch one of the ship’s longboats.
Realizing he did not have much time, he quickly disassembled the
shelter and scattered the branches into other piles of debris. He
gathered up the pistol, boarding axe and daggers
and moved further back into the trees. He watched intently from a
hidden spot as six men rowed their boat onto the beach. Upon making
landfall, the group immediately spread out. Two of them began
collecting bananas and coconuts from the beach while the rest set off
retrieving large branches. Eventually, one of the men broke away from
the others and began heading in his general direction. As the visitor
drew closer, the stranger ducked down as low as he could. When the
sailor was about ten feet away, the castaway drew his pistol and rose
up slowly. Pointing his weapon at the man, he placed his finger to
his lips and said, “Shhhhh.”

The sailor looked at him
without fear and simply said, “Who are you?”

Chapter Two

Lieutenant
William Keefer rapped loudly on the door to the captain’s
cabin. “Captain, sir, we’ve spotted a ship on the horizon.”

“Can you identify?” asked
the disembodied voice from beyond.

“No sir,
but they appear to be closing on our position,” answered the young
first mate.

Slowly, Captain Richard Enright
made his way to the edge of his cot. Dawn had not been kind this day
as he was still feeling the effects of the demon rum he had consumed
the night before. “I shall be on deck presently,” he said, more
jovial than he actually felt. Normally not one to indulge, Enright
broke out the spirits the previous night in celebration of the final
week of a very successful voyage. He commanded the Emerald
Princess, an English merchant ship that plied the azure waters of
the Caribbean in pursuit of trade. The vessel was a Fleut, a
three-masted Dutch design, prized for its ability to haul cargo.

As he made his way topside,
Captain Enright immediately saw the concerned looks on the faces of
his crew. He found Keefer on the fo’c’sle peering through his
spyglass. “What do we have here, Willie, my
boy?” The lieutenant lowered the glass and Enright immediately knew
there was trouble. “How much time do we have?” he asked.

“An hour, perhaps less,”
Keefer replied evenly. “I’m afraid they’re pirates, sir.” The
Emerald Princess was not a warship, but
she did mount six cannons. Her crew of eighteen
was relatively small for a ship of her size. At eighty feet long and
nearly 300 tons, Captain Enright had long ago made a decision to
forgo additional hands in exchange for the extra cargo his ship could
carry. Curious how he had never given that decision a second thought
until this moment.

The winds were light,
and the Emerald Princess was only making three knots. Despite
these conditions, the mysterious ship was moving at twice the speed
of her quarry. The lieutenant handed his master the spyglass. Enright
did not recognize the strange ship. Built low, with a graceful line,
she would look to be moving fast even at anchor. Perhaps most
intriguing was the iridescent black color of her hull, causing an
unearthly darkness that ran a chill up his spine despite the midday
sun. When he completed his survey, he looked over at his second in
command and took note of him staring out to sea with anxiety. Keefer
replied, “I am fairly certain that our friend out there is the
Privateer Sea Raven.”

“Sea Raven,” Enright
muttered, “What flag is she sailing under?”

Raising his glass, the
lieutenant studied the image for several seconds. “None that I can
see, but there are more than thirty men on deck.
Sir, they’re armed to the teeth!” he exclaimed.

Enright turned to look at his
men. Most of the crew had gathered around him as they too stared out
towards their enigmatic consort. He had grown fond of his men. They
had sailed together for more than two years, and
they had helped him to earn a sizable fortune. Of course, the
ordinary seaman that made up the majority of the crew barely earned
enough to survive. Despite this, the crew felt fortunate to sail with
their ostentatious master because they were treated fairly and with
respect—a rarity among the trade merchants of the day. “Lower the
sails Mr. Keefer,” Enright bellowed. “We shall not fight today.”

But Keefer protested “But
sir, these men are devils. They are ruthless and will give no
quarter.”

Captain Enright, trying his
best to exude confidence, replied “Willie, these men once served
the Crown. They may have indeed turned pirate,
but they are still gentlemen, and shall be shown
compassion. Besides, it’s a matter of practicality… we are
outnumbered and outgunned at least three to
one.”

Keefer tried to object “But
sir…”

Enright stared deeply at
him and quietly said, “You’ve put your trust in me for these last
two years, William. I will not let you down.” With that, the first
mate hesitated momentarily then gave the order to lower the sails.

The strange ship closed the
distance in minutes and deftly pulled alongside the Emerald
Princess. No sooner had the ships joined then a large man, well
over six feet, leapt aboard. He was followed in
turn by fifteen of his minions. Enright stepped towards the intruder
with Keefer at his heels. The captain surveyed this giant of a man.
Bare-chested in a flowing scarlet cloak, he wore a brace of pistols
on two bandoleers. His bald head glistened in the sun and was nearly
as bright as the large golden earring he wore through his left ear.
In accented English, that neither of the officers recognized, the man
spoke with a surprisingly soft tone, “You have chosen poorly,
Captain, in your decision not to fight. We have no stomach for
cowards.”

Keefer shot forward to strike
the insolent stranger. He thought he had moved quickly enough to
catch the intruder off guard. Much to his amazement,
however, he felt the sharp burning sensation of a blade thrust into
his belly. It had happened so quickly that he had not even seen the
big man move. The stranger grabbed the lieutenant’s shirt to
prevent him from falling. Pulling him close he said “So there is
honor among this rabble. I am Kraal. You should know this before you
die.” He released Keefer from his grasp and withdrew his blade. The
body of the young man fell heavily to the deck.

As the boarders rushed forward
to subdue the rest of the crew, Enright cried “Willie,” and
dropped to his knees beside his fallen lieutenant.

After a few moments, the big
hand of Kraal pulled the captain up by his hair. Enright was sobbing
softly saying “I am so sorry, my boy.”

“What is your cargo,
Captain?”

Slowly Enright raised his head
and looked into the murderer’s eyes. Composing himself,
he said, “Clearly, Mr. Kraal, you will have to answer for your deed
here today. Perhaps not to me, or even the Crown,
but ultimately you will stand before the Almighty. I can only pray
God shows you the same mercy you have shown here today... which is
none.”

Without word or thought, Kraal
grabbed him by his hair, tilted his head back and drew his weapon
across Enright’s throat. Blood pulsed freely with each beat of the
heart. The captain’s eyes rolled back, and
Kraal proceeded to cut through the soft tissue to the spine. When he
completed his grisly task, he violently twisted his head from his
body. Kraal lifted the decapitated head high to show the crew. He
then turned back towards his own ship and called out “A fine
specimen for your collection, aye, Captain?”

Standing on the quarterdeck of
the marauding ship, a lone figure smiled broadly. “I am feeling
generous this day Mr. Kraal. Have the men draw lots and have the two
lucky ones brought to me.”

“With pleasure,” Kraal
replied with a sinister edge to his voice.

The next day, Kraal stood on
the quarterdeck behind the Sea Raven’s helmsman. “Continue
to steer north by east. We need to make Tortuga by morning,
and we cannot afford any delays.”

The helmsman nodded in
agreement and Kraal lumbered off. He passed a gang hard at work on
one of the twelve-pound
cannons. As he walked by, the men visibly tensed at the mere presence
of the giant. One of the men actually made a sign of the cross as
Kraal moved past. The crew had reason to be nervous. They all had
vivid memories of an incident that occurred three days before. One of
the deckhands had spilled a bucket of water in front of Kraal. With
lightning speed, Kraal grabbed the poor sod by the hair and lifted
him off the deck. He raised him into the air with both hands, holding
him high over his head. Kraal walked slowly aft chanting something in
a foreign tongue as he headed to the rail. Before anyone could say a
word, the deckhand was pitched overboard. That was now life aboard
the Sea Raven and everyone knew it.

Kraal walked down to the great
cabin which sat at the aft end of the ship over the rudder. He
pounded his fist twice on the doorjamb and said “Kraal.”

From inside the cabin, a quiet
voice said “Enter.”

Kraal bent low to enter the
cabin and stood before the Captain’s table. “We are on schedule
to make Tortuga tomorrow, Captain Renn,” he announced.

The Sea Raven’s
captain sat in silence, staring at a chart laid out across
the table. “Very well Mr. Kraal. You’ve done well this trip, see
to it you get some rest. We will be very busy tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” Kraal replied,
and he left the cabin quickly.

Out from the shadows of the
great cabin, Henry Gifford stepped forward and breathed a sigh of
relief.

“He frightens you doesn’t
he, Henry?” Renn observed.

Gifford walked over to the
chart table and stood next to Renn. “I don’t know how you can
control him. That man is not mortal, he is a monster.”

“Nonsense, Henry. Kraal is
just, shall we say eccentric.”

Gifford snorted “Eccentric!
Why I have never seen a man so filled with bloodlust in my life. He
truly enjoys the act of killing. You can see it on his face. And yes,
he does scare me.”

Renn turned to face Gifford.
“Good! You see, Henry, this is what keeps everyone in line. The
crew fears him, he terrifies our enemies, and he
is helping to make the Sea Raven the most notorious marauder
on the open sea.”

Renn smiled and said, “That
answer is quite simple, Henry. I give him the
opportunity to do what he loves most.”

Dawn broke the next morning as
the Sea Raven approached Tortuga. Gifford stood on the
fo’c’sle deck and wondered what would happen when they docked.
Henry Gifford had been the first officer since she was launched. He
remembered that proud day and thought of all the great things they
would accomplish aboard this fine ship. He even dreamed of the day
when he would become her captain. But those dreams were shattered,
and now he only wished to be released from the nightmare he had
created. Gifford turned and was startled to see Captain Renn at
his shoulder.

“You’re quite skittish this
morning, Henry.”

Gifford composed himself,
looked back to sea and asked,
“When do you think we’ll be back in Virginia?”

In an instant, Renn brutally
spun the officer around and pulled him close. Through clenched teeth,
he seethed, “We have a lot more to do before
Virginia, Henry, and you will not fail me! Is
that clear?”

Gifford felt a stab of pain on
his right side. Glancing down he saw the dagger piercing his shirt
and a small dark stain spreading. He pushed himself free as Renn
again smiled at him. He pulled up his shirt and saw a small wound
above his hip. He looked back towards Renn and saw that Kraal had
arrived, calling “Do you need some help here, sir?”

Now grinning, Captain Renn
replied, “No, Mr. Kraal, I was just having a friendly chat with our
first officer.” Gifford’s face went white as he stared at both
men. He began to tremble as he rushed off to his cabin.

The Emerald Princess
sailed into the harbor at Port Royal, Jamaica early on the morning of
January 8th. The ship came in with full sails, making about five
knots behind a fresh breeze. As she entered the inner harbor, she
continued along at a fast clip. The harbor master, Charles
Montgomery, came out of his office when he was notified about the
incoming vessel. He was astonished to see a figure dive from her gun
deck into the water and swim toward the beach. “Sound the alarm!”
he bellowed. Turning to his quartermaster, he
said, “Please see to it that a detail is
present wherever this fool lands.”

“Aye sir,” Jack Barton
said, and he departed quickly. Montgomery turned
back to stare out into the harbor. His aide, Tom Adams, had also been
following him and handed the harbor master his spyglass. Peering
through the glass, Montgomery took in the details of the ship. She
appeared undamaged as her sails had been finely set and was cruising
as if at sea yet he could not see anyone on deck. They estimated her
speed at five to six knots, and she was making
for the dock at the west end. His aide tapped him on the shoulder and
said, “Sir, looks like the Quartermaster has
rounded up about a dozen men.”

Over the next few minutes,
Montgomery was transfixed on the scene developing before him. The
ship continued to close on the pier at high speed,
and he saw Barton’s detail running to meet her. Unbelievably, the
ship struck the dock at a thirty-degree angle. Instead of a glancing
blow, the ship sliced through the heavy wooden timbers and pushed its
way nearly a hundred feet up the dock. The bow of the vessel actually
rose several feet into the air before crashing down onto a pile of
crates. The impact knocked the quartermaster’s men off their feet
nearly thirty yards away. When the ship finally came to rest, Barton
got to his feet first and advanced slowly. When he reached the ship,
Tom Adams was by his side and together they surveyed the damage.

The ship’s hull was ripped
open along the port side. The main mast had toppled forward and lay
like a bridge from the dock to the deck. The quartermaster took the
lead and climbed up the mast onto the Emerald Princess. Adams
followed along with the rest of the detail. Once aboard, Barton
ordered his men to check for damages below and see if there were any
survivors. He moved aft, climbing over the wreckage caused by the
crash. He went up onto the quarterdeck and spotted the ship’s
wheel. The wheel was tied tight with several ropes apparently to hold
the rudder steady. There was no sign of any crew members,
and he felt a shiver run up his spine.

Montgomery approached the ship
several minutes later. “Ahoy,” he called from the dock.

Barton ran to the rail and said
“We’re checking her over now. The rudder’s been tied off,
and there’s no sign of the crew.”

“Keep me posted, Jack. I am
going down to the Admiralty Office to report.” With that, the
harbor master turned and was off.

Barton stood there watching
him when Tom Adams staggered to the quarterdeck. The aide fell to his
knees and vomited so violently that his entire body shook. “Tom!
Tom! What’s the matter? Tom!”

Slowly, Adams began to pick
himself off the deck. He got to his feet and grabbed for the rail
before saying “Jack… I think you better get below… to the
forward hold…”

Barton motioned to one of his
men on deck to see to Adams, and he moved
forward to the hatch leading below deck. As he descended, he was
nearly overcome by the smell. Upon reaching the bottom, Barton was
nearly knocked over by one of his men running for the ladder. The man
was muttering something unintelligible and seemed to be in a state of
panic. The Quartermaster called after him as he ran past but to no
avail. Barton pressed forward where two more of his men stood by with
lanterns. Stepping through a hatchway into the forward hold, he first
took notice of the looks on the faces of his men. They were ashen,
staring unblinking into a pile of debris. As his eyes
adjusted to the dim light, he began to realize that what he thought
was wreckage, was actually moving.

An hour later, the last body
was being removed from the ship. Charles Montgomery stood by his
quartermaster and spoke in hushed tones. “I understand two of the
crew will most likely live. The others… what, sixteen I believe,
will be given a proper burial.”

“That is what I understand,
sir,” Barton remarked. “I’ve never seen so much…blood…it
was everywhere.” He paused briefly recalling the horrific sight,
“And yet two of them were still alive?”

“No need to go over it now,
Jack. We’ve notified the Navy, and they will
want to speak with you shortly.”

“How is Tom?” Barton asked.

Montgomery just shook his head
and said, “The boy may never be the same.”

Chapter
Three

The
Whydah
cruised along at eight knots toward the peninsula town of Port
Royal, Jamaica. She was on the third leg of her second cruise and had
left Cartagena more than a week earlier. The Whydah was a ship
on a mission, she sailed the Atlantic routes that made up the
Triangular Trade, and her objective was quite
simple. The Whydah would travel from England to Africa’s
west coast where her captain would trade liquor, tools and firearms
for African slaves. These unfortunate souls, more than three hundred
on this particular trip, would endure an eight-week journey to the
West Indies, chained together in the ship’s hold. Those that
survived the ordeal were then sold for silver
and gold, and the profits returned to England where the crew would
share in the wealth.

The Whydah’s captain,
Lawrence Prince, was a gregarious man whose quick wit made him
popular with his crew. His human cargo, on the other hand, feared and
loathed him. He was ruthless in his dealings,
and he vowed to return a fortune to his partners in London. Prince
had proved to be adept at bartering, and the
cruise had been highly successful so far. He and his men were soon
tested however when their ship struggled to survive the worst storm
the crew had ever seen. The Whydah received significant
damage, and Prince was forced to find an
anchorage to make repairs. Limping along for two days, they came upon
a small uninhabited island off the coast of New Granada. Anchoring
off the leeward side of the island, a shore party was assembled to
gather materials for the repairs. The group launched one of the
ship’s longboats and rowed to shore. When they
returned, Captain Prince was surprised to find that their numbers had
increased by one.

The next morning, the Whydah’s
newest passenger was in a hammock on the lower deck next to an
eighteen-pound cannon. He lay there quietly as
he contemplated what to do next. When the stranger encountered the
ship’s crew on the island, he was asked by one of the crew members
who he was and quickly realized by this question that these sailors
were not responsible for his predicament. Knowing that there would be
a lot more questions, that frankly, he could not
answer, he feigned illness and collapsed at their feet. Eventually
put in the long boat, the man was rowed back to the Whydah and
carried aboard. Captain Prince made a cursory examination of him and
noted the cuts and bruises on his head. He ordered that their guest
be brought below and allowed to rest.

The man decided to keep up the
charade of illness and listened intently to what the crew was saying.
Over the next few days, he was able to determine that he was on a
slave ship called Whydah and that they were heading to England
after a stop in Port Royal for provisions. While he knew of both
England and Port Royal, he still had no idea who he was. He pushed
aside the feeling of panic that rose from within and thought about
his situation. Since his arrival aboard ship, the stranger was
treated carefully by most of the crew. A few others,
however, steered well clear of the man. They whispered about who he
may be and they were frightened, very frightened.

“I tell ya, I’ve seen this
man before. He’s a pirate, master of that ship Sea Raven,”
the Whydah’s second mate, Phillip Gregory said. “They were
under the British flag and then turned pirate.”

The ship’s carpenter, Oskar
Weiss scoffed, “How do you know all that?”

“In Cartagena, there were two
sailors, Navy types, at the tavern on Fortuada Street. They said that
this ship called Sea Raven had claimed two victims in as many
days and that they were ordered to find her.”

“So what does that have to do
with our friend here?” asked Weiss.

Gregory took a long pull from
his pipe and said through the smoke “Last year in London, I signed
up to work on the Sea Raven. I met the captain,
and he thought I would be a fine mate. I was all already to go but
the day she left, I busted me leg.”

“Mr. Gregory, I need you up
here!” Captain Prince bellowed.

Both men turned to head
topside. Still lying in his hammock pretending to be asleep, the
stranger had overheard the conversation. As the two men walked away,
the second mate said “There was something in his eyes back then.
He’s a bad man…that Grayson Fallon.”

Rising out of the mist, the
lush tropical mountains of Jamaica stretched towards the heavens.
Situated south of Cuba and west of Hispaniola, the island stood as a
gateway to the Spanish Main. Columbus first discovered Xamayca, as it
was known, on his second voyage in 1494. The Spanish attempted to
colonize the island in 1510, but it was evident
that their favor lay with Havana and Hispaniola. The colonists were
left to deal with privateers and pirates who often ransacked the
settlements and the colony languished for more than a century. In
1655, the British captured the island, and it
went on to become an important outpost during the many years of war
that followed.

On Jamaica’s southern shore,
lies a peninsula some ten miles long, creating one of the finest
harbors in the world. Known as Palisadoes Peninsula, the town of Port
Royal lies at its western tip. Upon capture by the British, their
first priority was to fortify Port Royal as a base of operations
against the Spanish. Soon afterward, it became a favorite haunt of
privateers where they would trade their plunder from Spanish ships
and ports. While the line between privateering and piracy is indeed
very thin, there was no doubt that Port Royal attracted all types of
brigands. Corruption and debauchery became rampant,
and the bustling city flourished in a decadent way.

All of that came to a crashing
halt in 1692, when the town was virtually destroyed by
a massive earthquake, what many considered divine retribution. Port
Royal was partially rebuilt but a fire in 1703 destroyed most of the
structures, and many of the permanent
inhabitants moved to the mainland to settle there. The British
maintained a naval base, however, and this
remained an important waypoint for legitimate merchants.

Aboard the Whydah, the
crew made preparations for landing. They would be in Port Royal
overnight only, and there was a lot of work to
be done. As the crew rushed about, the stranger stood at the
starboard rail gazing at the harbor. Pieces were slowly beginning to
fall into place for him. When the second mate had mentioned the name
Grayson Fallon, it reminded him of his dream on the island where the
old man had called him Grayson. The name somehow seemed to feel
right, and although he still had no memory, he
knew in his heart that this was his name.

A short time later, the ship
eased into her berth and lines were cast to secure the vessel.
Captain Prince came and stood by his guest. Dressed in his finest
wear, the short, rotund master of the Whydah
inquired, “Have you been to Port Royal before? It’s nothing like
it was 25 years ago. I came here as a youngster on one of my first
cruises. Looking back, I was indeed fortunate to have even survived.”
He continued, “I can tell you one thing. My visit here taught me
the value of being able to negotiate. Sometimes it is for profit,
sometimes for your very life.”

The stranger, who now thought
of himself as the mysterious Grayson Fallon, found that he had no
stomach for the captain, his crew or their sickening trade. Fallon
turned to Prince and announced, “Captain, I will be disembarking
here in Port Royal. I shall always be grateful for your assistance.”

Prince turned to him and asked,
“Feeling better I take it?”

Fallon did not reply. He simply
turned, walked to the gangplank and departed the ship. He spent the
better part of the day exploring Port Royal. He spoke with a handful
of the merchants who still supply the Royal Navy,
and he was able to piece together Port Royal’s checkered past. He
could only imagine that the town was a mere shadow of what it once
was. Some of the streets were underwater from the earthquake in ’92,
and there were many burned out structures remaining from the
subsequent fire fourteen years ago.

Beginning to feel hungry,
Fallon felt around in his pocket for the three gold coins he had
found on the island. Before he could think about eating,
though, he wanted to look into something one of the merchants had
passed on to him. Adjacent to the harbor master’s office was a
ramshackle old building with an apothecary sign in the window. Fallon
entered the building and walked to the end of a long counter where an
elderly gentleman sat at a desk. He was a kindly looking man with an
intelligent face and long white hair. Writing furiously in a journal,
he did not hear Fallon enter. “Excuse me,
sir,” Fallon interrupted.

The man continued writing for
another minute and then looked up at the man
standing before him. Slender in build, this stranger looked
bedraggled in his stained and torn clothes, yet something about him
commanded respect. “How can I help you, young man?” he inquired.

“I’m afraid, kind sir that
I am in a bit of a predicament. Would you happen to know anything
about a particular ailment with which I am afflicted…?”

They spent the next two hours
in conversation. The shopkeeper, Alexander Ridley, was also a
physician for the Royal Navy, kept on staff as he had studied in both
London and Paris. Dr. Ridley listened patiently to Fallon as he told
his disjointed tale. To his credit, Fallon was as truthful as he
thought prudent. He talked about his injuries and all that he could
remember. While he did not discuss events on the island, he did feel
comfortable enough to tell the doctor what he heard about Grayson
Fallon aboard ship. Despite all of this, the result was a tale that
seemed to make little sense. When they had finished, Fallon stood to
leave but toppled back into his chair. Ridley helped Fallon to his
feet and led him to a back room where there was a cot.

“Lay here, young man, I will
bring you something to eat. Please do not move, you can rest here for
a few days if you like.” With that, Ridley scurried off and left
Fallon with his thoughts.

Dusk was fast approaching,
and Grayson Fallon reflected on what the doctor had explained. His
condition was called amnesia and that it can be caused by injury or
in some cases by shock or fright. As Fallon had listened, he pressed
the doctor with questions about recovery. He was told that healing
for such patients differed from person to person. In some cases, the
individual made a full recovery after a few months. Others, less
fortunate, were never able to remember their past.

Ridley returned shortly with a
pot of peanut soup andset the table with bowls and
pewter mugs. Walking behind the counter, he came back to the table
with a bottle of fine brandy. The men ate in silence as Fallon wolfed
down his portion. The doctor would fill his bowl two more times until
the soup was gone.

“I cannot thank you enough
for your kindness, Doctor,” Fallon said as he sat back in his
chair.

Ridley studied the man and
decided he liked him. “I think I should tell you something. The
harbor master may be looking for you. You see, these last two days
have been quite exciting around here. It began yesterday when a large
freighter sailed into port at high speed and smashed up the pier.
There were quite a few dead among the crew, and
the two survivors were, well, let’s just say they were the
unfortunate ones.”

Ridley took out a handkerchief
and wiped his forehead. Having been called to the scene of the
accident immediately, he went on to relay the details of the story to
his guest. The doctor paused before continuing, “If that wasn’t
enough excitement for the week, this morning, another vessel arrived
to take on provisions. It’s a slave ship called Whydah. The
crew was given liberty and a couple of the crew members have been
spouting off all afternoon that they rescued a vicious pirate who is
on the loose here in Port Royal.”

The next morning, Fallon arose
early and left the apothecary before Dr. Ridley awoke. He set off
down Queen Street, gazing into vacant shops and eventually making his
way to High Street. There on the corner, a tall building, slightly
askew, caught his eye. The entire structure leaned to the right and
it looked as if it could topple over at any moment. A broken sign
lying in the street told Fallon this was the Theatre of Port Royal.
He placed his hands on the door frame and gave it a sturdy shake. As
precarious as the building looked, it felt solid enough so he pushed
the door open and stepped inside.

The theater appeared to be
quite ornate, and it looked as if it could have
held a hundred patrons in its heyday. The main room was littered with
debris, and several benches were piled against
the stage. Fallon made his way through mounds of rubble and stepped
up onto the stage of the playhouse. He walked behind a dark curtain,
which hung limply from the rafters, and found himself in a room that
was well lit from large holes in the ceiling. Poking around, he
smiled as he spied what he desired—a large trunk tucked away in one
corner next to a dressing table. Sweeping away the debris from the
top of the trunk, Fallon opened it to unearth a wonderful mix of
costumes, wigs, and makeup cases. After
inspecting the cases, several outfits and wigs were assembled on the
table.

About thirty minutes later, a
stately old gentleman with silver curled hair emerged from the
theater. He was dressed in a long cloak, with a thick collar around
the neck and a cape draped over his shoulders. Beneath the cloak, he
wore a white shirt, a silver waistcoat and a cravat loosely tied at
the neck. The man’s breeches came down to his knees,
and white spatterdashes covered his lower legs.
His shoes were highly polished with bright silver buckles. Although
still not sure of his past, Grayson Fallon felt like a new man and
was determined to pursue his identity relentlessly.

Fallon’s first stop was back
at the apothecary where he found Dr. Ridley washing up at the basin
in the back room. “Good morning Doctor,” he called in a deep
voice.

Ridley turned and stared at the
intrusion. “Do I know you, sir?” he asked.

The stranger replied,
“Considering I do not even know myself, I would find it hard to
think you can know me, Doctor.”

Ridley continued to stare and
then finally said, “Grayson?”

“What do you think? Can I
pass for a society gentleman?”

The doctor looked Fallon up and
down remarking, “Indubitably. Now, what do you
intend to do?”

Fallon walked to the front of
the store to gaze out of the broken window. After a few moments, he
replied, “I need to find out about Grayson Fallon and this ship
called the Sea Raven.”

Remembering the story Fallon
had relayed, Ridley said, “There may be an opportunity for you.
While you were out this morning, I was informed that an East Indiaman
was lying to about a mile off the coast and would be docking shortly.
She is bound for America and carries more than a hundred passengers
and crew. They will be here for two days before setting sail.”

Jack Barton, the Port Royal
quartermaster, was shouting orders to the various teams working the
docks. There were at least two dozen men dismantling the wreckage of
the Emerald Princess. The ship was a total loss after
colliding with the dock two days before under very bizarre
circumstances. In addition, Barton had a crew working to unload
provisions from the Iberra. The Iberra had docked
earlier that morning and the men had been offloading supplies all
day. She was a large freighter known as an East Indiaman. At nearly
160 feet long, and 35 feet wide, the ship weighed in at seven hundred
tons. Her crew numbered more than one hundred,
and she carried twenty cannons of varying sizes.

Barton walked to the gangplank
that stretched out to the Iberra’s gun deck and called out,
“Permission to come aboard.”

Dressed in a dark blue overcoat
with gold piping on the sleeves and lapels, the gallant looking
figure standing aboard the gangplank replied, "Granted."

With that, Barton proceeded to
board the ship, pausing to salute as he stepped aboard.

The man in the blue coat
returned the salute and announced, “Welcome to the Iberra, I
am Captain Paquette. And you are?”

“Jack Barton, quartermaster
here on Port Royal. The harbor master, Mr. Montgomery, sends his
compliments.” The two men shook hands and studied each other for a
few moments.

Paquette remarked, “Mr.
Barton, your men have done a fine job with the supplies. I hope they
will be as efficient when loading. We would like to depart day
after tomorrow.”

Barton looked down upon his men
scurrying about the pier. “None to worry sir, they are a fine lot.
They’ll have you squared away in no time.”

Captain Paquette joined Barton
at the rail and looked out over the dock. Several buildings were
visible, and he said, “It’s been quite a
while since I’ve been here, Mr. Barton, has much of the town been
rebuilt?”

“I’m afraid the rebuilding
process has been slow, and I don’t know if we
will ever return to the splendor of the past,” replied Barton with
a hint of sarcasm.

“Splendor, Mr. Barton? I am
not sure I would have ever categorized Port Royal as splendid. It was
always a fine place for sailors and the like to partake in, shall we
say, more lustful pursuits. Is that still the case?” asked
Paquette.

“Yes sir, there are a few
local establishments that can cater to the needs of your men.”

“Excellent Mr. Barton, we
will be wrapping up here shortly. May I invite you and the harbor
master to my cabin for supper this evening?”

As the sun went down that
evening, the crew of the Iberra received liberty and fanned
out throughout the town. Many found their way to Captain Henry's, a
large inn on Lime Street, named in honor of the legendary Henry
Morgan—buccaneer, statesman, hero. The inn was very crowded,
and there were only a few seats available when Philip Zack and Roger
Oxley entered. They were two of the Iberra’s deckhands and
best of friends. They found two seats at a table where an old man was
already sitting.

The men plopped down into a
couple of chairs, and a barmaid
appeared within seconds. Both men ordered up some grog and shepherd’s
pie.

Oxley followed up by saying,
“And bring a pint for our new friend here,”
gesturing to the old man at the table.

Zack leaned closer to his
friend, whispering, “’Have you lost your mind? We ain’t got
paid yet and here you spending money we don’t have.”

Oxley just laughed and pushed
Zack away. “You’ve got to learn to live a little, my friend.”
Turning to the old man, he said, “Wouldn’t
you agree, my good man?”

Grayson Fallon smiled and
nodded his agreement.

Philip Zack and Roger Oxley
continued to wolf down their food and drink as Grayson Fallon just
sat back and listened in amazement at their escapades. Sitting with
the two, disguised as the old man, he was encouraged that the more
they drank, the more talkative they became. At one point, Oxley
mentioned the Sea Raven and Fallon pressed them on the issue.

“When we made port
a couple of weeks ago in Santo Domingo, we saw two men row ashore in
a ship’s launch,” Zack began. “They were the navigator and a
cabin boy from a ship called the William Galley. The story
they told was enough to curl your real hair, old man.” Fallon said
nothing but sat transfixed on every word.

Zack took a sip of his drink
and continued, “The two men were barely alive. They had been beaten
to within an inch of their lives. We helped the boy to the infirmary,
but the older man wanted us to hear his story. He told us they were
attacked by the British privateer Sea Raven even though they
were flying the St. Georges Cross.”

Oxley then spoke up, “Yeah,
and he also said that they didn’t seem too interested in their
cargo. All they were looking for was a fight.”

Zack glared at his shipmate,
annoyed by the interruption. He continued, “I wouldn’t call what
they did a fight. The navigator told me that once the ships were tied
together, a big, bald man boarded the ship followed by a couple dozen
men and they began to attack the crew. He said three men grabbed him
and the cabin boy and tied them up to watch. He said they slaughtered
the crew, one by one and made the men suffer.”

Fallon finally broke in to ask
some questions. “If I may sir, how do you know
they were not interested in the cargo? It would seem to me that once
the crew was out of the way, they could plunder the ship at leisure.”

“Aye, you stupid bloke, you
didn’t let us finish,” Oxley snapped.

Zack put a hand to his friend’s
mouth to shut him up. After a moment he said, “They told us that
about half the crew was cut with knives on purpose, and then thrown
overboard. There are sharks in those waters and in no time, they had
themselves a feast. The rest of the crew put up a fight, but they
were no match. Those that remained were either killed or wounded. The
navigator and the boy were then beaten, put in the ship’s launch
and set adrift.”

Oxley continued in a more
subdued tone, “When they cut the ship loose from the Sea Raven,
she was set afire. He said they could hear the screaming from those
of the crew who were still alive.”

“My God, that is appalling,”
Fallon exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing?”

Zack shook his head and said,
“That’s the funny thing. When the two survivors rowed off, the
navigator said a man called out to them from the deck of the
privateer. He said a figure dressed all in black shouted, ‘Never
forget what you have seen here today, gentlemen, compliments of
Grayson Fallon and the great Commonwealth of Virginia.’”

A shiver ran up Fallon’s
spine, and his head began to spin. He needed
some air. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his three gold coins
and tossed one on the table. “Thank you,
gentlemen… I, ah… I need to be going.”

Zack and Oxley looked at each
other, not quite sure what to do next.

The man known as Hutchins was
one of the few permanent residents of Port Royal. Several years
before, he had been a crewman on a Dutch freighter and was a sailor
by trade but a thief by nature. The crew did not trust him and after
a night of drunken debauchery, he awoke to find that his ship had set
sail without him. Since that time, he relied upon
odd jobs for his survival. To supplement his meager income, he would
prey upon those visitors he considered weak. Hutchins stood in the
corner of Captain Henry’s observing everything and everyone. He
took notice of the dapper old man when he came in and kept his eye on
him. He nearly fell over when he saw the gentleman remove three gold
coins from his pocket to pay his tab. “Where there’s three there
must be more,” he said to himself.

Grayson Fallon stumbled as he
made his way to the door of Captain Henry’s. He was in shock after
hearing the story of the Sea Raven and just felt like he had
to get out of there. As he stepped outside, he began to walk slowly
back towards the apothecary. He did not notice the thin, scraggly man
following a few paces behind. When Fallon reached the alleyway
between Lime Street and High Street, he was brutally shoved into the
dark passageway. Hutchins continued to push him for several feet
until they were out of sight from the street.

“Good evening, kind sir,”
Hutchins began. “Can you help a fellow out? I’m a bit down on my
luck this evening.”

“Get your hands off of me!
What is the meaning of this?” Fallon protested.

Hutchins let go but remained
close. “All’s well, Gov’nor. I just need a few of them gold
coins you have in your pocket. What say you hand them over now,
and I’ll be on my way?” With that, Hutchins slid a long thin
dagger out of his waistband and waved the blade in front of the old
man.

This seemed to awaken Fallon,
and whether it was instinct, training or sheer stupidity, he lunged
forward and grabbed Hutchins by the wrist. He spun the assailant
around and shoved him to the ground. Hutchins lay there for a moment,
slowly got to his knees and stood, startled to find out the old man
could move so fast. He was even more surprised to see him still
standing there.

“You shouldn’t have done
that, Gov’nor,” Hutchins said as he spat out a broken tooth. He
still held the dagger in his right hand, and the
two men squared off. Fallon said nothing and stood there with his
hands at his side. Hutchins looked him up and down, decided the old
man had just gotten lucky and leapt forward.
Fallon gracefully sidestepped the thrust to the right and kicked his
assailant in the back as he went past. Hutchins again landed face
first in the dirt.